Getting Lucky

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Yeah, right.” Holly gave her a chastening look. “I don’t hold infants.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not as if she spits up on command or anything,” Maggie said.

  “But it’d be a neat trick if she could,” added a new voice. “I’ll hold her. C’mere, munchkin.”

  Lynda’s faint blush turned deep crimson as Ben took Rachel from her mother. Just what she needed—an audience of people she hardly knew to watch her buy a simple outfit for a date, and now the date was there, too, on the verge of charming everyone within fifty feet. “Ben,” she said awkwardly. “What are you doing here?”

  “We had to pick up some supplies, and Sophy wanted to come in here for some T-shirts.” He gestured, and across the room, Sophy grinned, waved, then went back to her browsing.

  “You must be the handsome Southerner I’ve heard so much about,” Holly said. “It’s hard to believe you’ve been in town more than a few hours and this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on you. How did that happen?”

  He looked pointedly at the ring on her left hand. “Maybe you’ve been paying more attention to your husband than to the other men in town.”

  “My husband,” Holly repeated. “Words no one ever thought would cross my lips. It’s an amazing thing.”

  “Tom’s an amazing man,” Lynda said.

  Holly’s perfectly-shaped mouth curved into a smug, secretive smile. “He most certainly is. So … Ben, is it? How long will you be staying in Bethlehem?”

  “As long as I have a reason.”

  Maggie nudged Lynda toward the end of the rack and away from Ben and Holly. “The lavender sweater’s down here. It’s all right to leave him alone with Holly. Her devotion to Tom has rendered her harmless to the opposite sex. He’s awfully handsome,” she went on, her voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry. “And look at him with Rachel. Who can resist a man who’s so comfortable with a baby?”

  They did make a sweet picture, Lynda thought, sneaking a few glances their way. His hair was tousled, his grin wide, his stance at ease, as if cradling chubby drooling little girls was an everyday thing. As for Rachel, she looked as if she couldn’t imagine anyplace more comfortable than snuggled against his chest, listening to the lazy, honeyed sound of his voice. Smart child.

  Maggie picked up a lavender sweater, shook it out, and held it up to Lynda, then turned her toward a mirror in the corner. “So how long have you been seeing him?”

  Lynda almost dropped the sweater. “I— We aren’t— Ben works for me.”

  Maggie deliberately misunderstood. “A man should expend a little effort to win the woman he wants. It’s only fair.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, Lynda,” Maggie said with a laugh, then waved toward the mirror. “This is a really good color for you. Add a pair of jeans or trousers, maybe a short little denim skirt.… He won’t be able to take his eyes off you, which he’s hardly done anyway.”

  Lynda resisted taking a peek at him in the mirror for all of thirty seconds, then angled to one side where she could see that Maggie was right. He did keep glancing in their direction. And that could mean anything. Or nothing.

  She was so preoccupied with watching him that when Maggie turned her around, it caught her off guard, and when Maggie spoke, her voice raised to carry, Lynda was totally unprepared. “Ben, what do you think of this color on Lynda?” she asked, swinging the sweater side to side before settling it over Lynda’s chest.

  Lynda felt her face turn crimson. The last time she’d asked a man’s opinion on clothing, she’d been dressed up for her one and only formal high school dance, and the man had been her father. He’d told her she was beautiful, even though the flats she wore had ruined the whole effect and she’d faced an entire evening of awkward dancing with a boy whose nose came right smack in the middle of her cleavage.

  But Ben wasn’t sixteen years old, he reached considerably higher than her chest, and sometimes when he grinned at her, she felt as beautiful as her father had insisted she was.

  He came a few feet closer, and his gaze moved over the sweater … slowly. “At my grandmother’s house in Atlanta, there was a big old oak tree outside my bedroom window wrapped in a wisteria vine as thick as my arm. Every spring it was loaded with so many blossoms that it turned the entire oak that same shade of purple. That wisteria was the first thing I saw when I woke up and the last thing I saw when I went to sleep. That’s been one of my favorite colors ever since.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then, at the same time, all three women gave a soft sigh. It wasn’t his words so much as his voice—soft, rounded vowels flowing into lazy consonants, so very Southern and smooth and sexy as hell. And he probably knew it, too, Lynda thought. She looked at him, expecting to see that grin, but it wasn’t there. In its place he wore the faintest of smiles, the most serious of expressions. When he caught her looking, the smile broadened slightly, privately, somehow meant for her alone.

  Then he shifted his attention to Rachel. “Your mama says you can’t spit up on command, munchkin. How about if I teach you to burp on cue? You know, when you can’t walk or talk, you’ve gotta do something besides look cute to earn your keep.”

  “You’re very good with her,” Maggie remarked. “Do you have children of your own?”

  It took him a moment or two to look up, and finally he was grinning. “I haven’t been in town long enough to accept responsibility for anyone but myself.”

  Which begged the question, Lynda thought. If the answer was no, why not simply say so? And if he did have a child, why not simply say so?

  Her first thought was that another call to Melina was in order when she returned to the office. Her second thought was something new and different, at least for her. Instead of paying a private investigator to snoop around once more in his personal life, especially when she had no professional reason for wanting the information, why not ask him? She knew an incredible amount of information about her coworkers, neighbors, and strangers, and virtually all of it came second-hand. Why not, for once, go straight to the source? It would be so normal, so expected—so unexpected from her. It would be an entirely new experience.

  And who knew? He might even give her an answer.

  Sophy swung her shopping bag as she and Ben walked down the sidewalk toward the GTO. She was chattering about clothes and summer colors versus fall ones, but he was paying little attention. At least five minutes had passed since he’d given the baby back to her mother, but he swore he could still feel her weight pressing against him, could still smell the sweet baby-powder scent of her and feel the warmth seeping from her chubby little body.

  Was that how Alanna had felt and smelled when she was tiny? Had she dazzled Berry with those goofy, sleepy smiles? Had she made Berry feel connected? Incredibly fortunate? Would she have made him feel that way twelve years ago?

  He wasn’t proud to admit that the answer was probably not. He’d been twenty years old and living for the moment. He’d had no goals beyond enjoying himself, no needs other than a place to live, beer to party, and money for his car. He hadn’t been able to comprehend the enormous responsibility of parenthood, though Emmaline had done her best to make him understand. All he’d known was that he didn’t want to be a father, tie himself down with Berry, curtail his social life, or grow up in the ways that having a baby would require. It was easier to kiss Berry good-bye. He would have stopped seeing her before long anyway. Her getting pregnant had just moved up the inevitable by a few weeks.

  But in the past twelve years he’d finally done the growing up he’d wanted to avoid. He knew he’d been selfish and irresponsible—knew it was most likely too late to have a real relationship with Alanna. But he could let her know he was sorry. He could make sure she understood the problems were his and Berry’s, and so was the blame. He could assure her she’d deserved better parents.

  If he ever figured out how or when to approach her.

  “Hey. Yoo-hoo. Earth to Ben.”

&nbs
p; Five long slender fingers waved in front of his face, then snapped, making him blink. Sophy stood in the street in front of him, and he’d stopped short on the curb, staring blindly across the street … where a half-dozen young girls spilled out of a store, talking and laughing.

  Alanna was in their midst.

  Sophy looked from him to the girls, then called, “Hey, Angels! When’s your next game?”

  “Saturday at one,” several of them replied together.

  “Good luck.” Sophy nudged Ben, and he slowly stepped off the curb. “I love soccer. Where I come from, we didn’t have it.”

  He forced his gaze away from Alanna, wearing shorts that came halfway to her knees, a Seraphim T-shirt, and her blonde hair in a ponytail. “And where do you come from?”

  “Ohio.”

  “They don’t have soccer in Ohio?”

  Either she didn’t hear his dry question or chose to ignore it. “Where are you taking Ms. Barone for dinner tonight?”

  “How do you know I’m taking her to dinner?”

  “People talk,” she said with a shrug.

  He didn’t talk, and he’d bet Lynda didn’t, either. Since no one else knew— “You mean, Gloria talks.”

  She shrugged again. “So where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” She circled to the passenger side of the car, then frowned at him over the roof. “Maybe that’s how you do it down home, but Ms. Barone’s different. You can’t just go cruising around until you pass some hamburger joint that smells appetizing and pull in on the spur of the moment.”

  “Why not?” he challenged. “Lynda has her entire life planned out in her daily organizer. She can tell you today what time she intends to go to bed a year and five months from now. It might do her a little good to just go cruising around with no destination in mind. An occasional surprise is good for the soul.”

  She blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again. It was the first time he’d seen her at a loss for words, and it made him grouchy. “What?” he asked finally, not liking the blank way she was staring at him.

  “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am.” Then, “About what?”

  “An occasional surprise is good for the soul. I wasn’t aware you knew very much about souls.”

  He scowled at her, then slid behind the wheel. As soon as she was settled in beside him, he headed for Lynda’s house.

  “So your plan for this evening is no plan at all.”

  “Pretty much.” Except when the evening was over. He most definitely planned to get another kiss or three from her. Kisses he could have without compromising his no-involvement rule. After all, there was a world of difference between kissing someone and having an affair with her. Lynda too-rich-too-beautiful-too-every-thing-for-the-likes-of-him Barone was about as likely to have an affair with him as Alanna was to throw her arms around his neck and cry, “Welcome home, Daddy, I’ve missed you so much!”

  Both plain, hard facts left an achy feeling deep in his gut.

  He and Sophy worked until six o’clock. She left with Gloria, and he followed them down the hill, then drove the few blocks to the apartment he’d rented. Each unit had a living/dining room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom, and came with furniture that, as far as he could tell, had never had a prime to be past. Number 7 was only slightly larger than Lynda’s living room, but it was suitable for his needs. It wasn’t as if he’d be bringing women home with him, or have his kid there for the weekend.

  After showering, he dressed in jeans and a white shirt. With the tails tucked in and the sleeves rolled up, it was about as dressy as he ever got, except for the black suit he’d bought for Emmaline’s funeral. It had been his first time wearing a suit, and he wouldn’t mind at all if it was also his last.

  Unless someday, by some miracle, he got invited to Alanna’s wedding. Unless, by some bigger miracle, he had a wedding of his own.

  At precisely six-thirty, he parked beside Lynda’s Mercedes and shut off the engine. He wondered if she’d be wearing the wisteria-colored shirt the baby’s mom had picked out for her, wondered where she expected him to take her and if maybe he should have taken Sophy’s advice and planned ahead.

  He couldn’t afford the sort of places she was accustomed to going on dates, not on a regular basis, which was okay, since the closest one was probably a hundred miles away. Besides, he couldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. If she couldn’t unbend enough to enjoy a simple evening with him, she would tell him no the next time he asked, or he wouldn’t be foolish enough to ask again.

  Too bad.

  He rang the back doorbell, and after a moment she opened the door. She was wearing the lavender sweater. It looked as soft as spun cotton and clung to her breasts before ending just below the waistband of— “You’re wearing jeans.”

  “I—I thought— Do I look like an idiot?”

  “Oh, darlin’, far from it.” She looked … incredible. “Are you ready to go?”

  She locked up, and then he had the pleasure of watching her walk down the steps and across the path to the car. Every other woman he knew should look so good in white denim. It was enough to make his own jeans suddenly feel snugger.

  “Is there anyplace in particular you’d like to go?” he asked as he backed around the Mercedes.

  She shook her head. “Surprise me.”

  He grinned. “I think I can do that.”

  It was a good night for a drive. The windows were down, and it was warm, but not stifling. There was little traffic on the road, B. B. King was on the stereo, and she’d fixed her hair in some sort of braid that looked as if it could withstand a hurricane, so there was no complaining about the wind. He would give an awful lot, before the evening was over, to remove the elastic band, let her hair fall over his hands like threads of silk, and comb it smooth with his fingers … right before he mussed it again.

  Maybe. If he was lucky.

  He drove through downtown Bethlehem, then took the highway out of town. It curved up the mountainside and out of the valley, and led to a town about twice the size of Bethlehem, named Howland. When he’d finally arrived in this part of the state a few weeks ago, he’d stopped there to get gas, have a cup of coffee, and entertain tempting thoughts about turning around and heading home before it was too late. Emmaline was dead, and delivering the pendant could be better done by mail, he’d reasoned. Alanna had gotten along just fine without him for her entire life. There was no reason to think she couldn’t do just as well without him for the rest of it.

  Funny. She would do just fine without him. He wasn’t so sure how well he’d get along without her.

  “When I saw you that night at the concert …”

  He glanced over in time to see Lynda smile sheepishly. “What?” he prompted when she didn’t go on.

  She shrugged, then gestured toward the stereo. “I thought then that you probably liked the blues.”

  “You want to change it?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “What do you like? Wagner, Schubert?”

  “God, no. I like George Strait. Garth Brooks. Trisha Yearwood.”

  Ben grinned. “So you’re a country girl at heart.”

  “It’s good music,” she protested.

  “I’m not arguing with you. I’m just pleasantly surprised.”

  “I like most kinds of music. But not classical. Or rap. Opera drives me nuts. Some of the stuff young people listen to strikes me as mostly noise.”

  “Young people,” he repeated. “Like you’re so old. You must be all of … what? Thirty? Thirty-two?”

  “You’re a brave man, guessing a woman’s age. Let’s say I’m older than you and leave it at that.”

  “Let’s not. How much older than me?”

  She took a moment as if she needed to do the calculations, but he suspected she already knew, to the day. “Two and a half years or so.” She brushed her hair back, though it didn’t need it. Ben figured it
was just something to occupy the moment it took her to quietly ask, “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me.” Only one age had ever been of much importance to him, and that was the age of consent. They’d both passed that years ago. Besides, they were just going out. No dinner reservations, no plans, nothing more than a few good-night kisses at the door when it was over—hardly even a real date. This was no different from taking Sophy or Melina to dinner … except that he had zero desire to kiss Sophy or Melina. “You’ve never been out with a man who’s younger than you, have you?”

  Lynda shook her head.

  “Has anyone ever suggested that you need to loosen up a bit, Ms. Barone?”

  “Melina does all the time. But I couldn’t be like her.”

  “I’m not sure many people could. What do your parents think of her?” If Phil and Janice Barone didn’t like her and Lynda was best friends with her anyway, then … What? It might not be important that her mother hated the thought of her daughter with him? Since Lynda would never be with him, it didn’t matter.

  “My dad loves her. He says she’s the daughter he never had.” She gave him a quick look with an uneasy smile. “It’s his idea of a joke, because Melina’s so feminine and so clearly adores men and I … I have my career.”

  Not much of a joke, Ben thought. “And your mother?”

  “Mom likes her, though she doesn’t exactly approve of her. She thinks Melina’s too wild, too aggressive, too brash … but she also thinks Melina’s going to make her mother a grandmother long before she’ll be one.”

  “The woman who’s planning a website called marrymydaughterplease.com thinks someone else is too aggressive?”

  Crimson stained not just her cheeks but her entire face and down her throat, and her voice came out choked and dismayed. “She told you about that?”

  “Actually, she was discussing it with law-boy when you left the table Saturday night. For all practical purposes I became invisible when you walked away.” He grinned. “Hey, you were the one who had to go to the bathroom. You should have known better. So … tell me again about Anton, of the green eyes and oily muscles. Exactly what product is he selling? It wouldn’t happen to be himself, would it?”